She is a weakness. She aches in
his bones, in his blood, hurts more than the lyrium ever could. He hates her. He
loves her so much. He hates that he loves her because he knows that he doesn’t
have the right. Not after all that he has done to her. It’s only right that she
wouldn’t want him. He had his chance. He let her slip away because he was weak,
he was a coward, he was a fool and he was unworthy. She is too much the sun and
he belongs to the shade.
She laughs to whatever Anders
is saying, elbow on the table and chin in her hands. She smiles as she listens
to him speak, eyes bright, a finger tracing the rim of her mug. Another
chuckle, both hands around the mug now, lifting it to her lips. A small trace
of foam lingers on the side of her mouth, and he resists the urge to reach out,
brush it away. It’s Anders who does that instead. Her back snaps straight after
his touch, her face turning red, bringing a hand to where he had touched her.
Fenris rises from the table,
leaves his own mug untouched. She doesn’t want him. This is what he thought he
wanted. He thought it better if she hated him, if she stayed away. She deserved
more than what poor offerings he could give. The night is cool upon his skin,
but it does not chase away the fire that coils around his chest. The burning
that tells him everything is wrong. It isn’t better. He needs her. She doesn’t
“Fenris!” He looks over his
shoulder, sees her running towards him. Away from the fires of the Hanged Man,
the laughter of their friends. Towards him. He keeps walking. “Maker’s breath,
Fen, wait!” Warmth on his skin as her hand finds his arm, pulls herself in. “Always
trying to run away from me,” she says as she smiles at him. She keeps her arm
linked in his, both hands on his skin, as tight as she can get. Cheeks flushed
from running, not because of him.
“You should go back,” he says, “the
others will miss you.”
“I’d rather be with you,” she
tells him. He shakes his head, looks away from her.
“Fenris,” she says softly, “why
are you avoiding me?” He stops mid-step, on the stairs that lead to Hightown. She
lingers on the step below him, looks up at him.
“I’m not avoiding you,” he
“Yes,” she says, “you are. Have
I done something wrong?”
“No. No, I – no,” he sighs. Her
hand reaches for his, clumsy fingers locking together as she walks forward,
keeps them on the same step.
“Tell me,” she says.
“I…” his hand squeezes hers
before he slips out of her grip. “Perhaps another time.” He turns, resumes his
walk. After a moment, still on the step, watching the stiff line of his
shoulders, she follows after him. She stays that one step back from him the
rest of the way. He stops at his mansion, looks at her. She’s standing in
moonlight, her hands clasped behind her back.
He always looks so sad. His
brows furrowed, a knot that lingers just there. She aches to brush it away, to
press her lips against his and tell him all the things she can’t. After all, he
doesn’t want her.